Bar Nights and Christmas Lights
by nowforruin
Summary: Emma Swan isn't new to one night stands, and that's mostly fine with her - until the past shows up when she least expects it. (Christmas two-shot)
1. Chapter 1

She walks into the bar looking for trouble, rage burning in her veins and begging for an outlet. Once glimpse of a man on the street who looks a little too much like a ghost, and just like that, she's tumbling down the proverbial rabbit hole. It makes her reckless, desperate for a distraction.

She's gotten to know this city, but she doesn't know this bar. Considering what she's looking for tonight, that suits her fine.

It's crowded, smoke thick in the air in spite of it being outlawed years ago. The scent of stale beer mixes with tobacco and sweat, and if she closes her eyes, she could be in another bar, another place, another time.

Another person.

She refuses to close her eyes.

Instead, she scans the room, looking for an opening. She prefers a table, somewhere she can keep her back to the wall, but it doesn't look like it's in the cards tonight. There's one spot left at the bar, a couple on one side and a solo drinker on the other.

Emma pushes through the crowd until she can claim the empty seat, her legs sliding easily over the stool. The bar is sticky under her fingers, and a quick scan of the liquor bottles shows very little of interest, but there's tequila – a bar like this, there's always tequila.

She places her order, scanning the room over and over. It's a habit, one that's hard to stop. Beside her, the solo drinker chuckles, his finger tracing the rim of his scratched glass with a clink of the thick silver ring he wears.

"Relax, lass." His voice is smooth, lilting with the hint of an accent, but rough with liquor. "No one will bother you here."

"Does that include you?" She downs her shot, signaling for another. The burn of the liquor usually soothes the rage, but tonight, it only burns hotter. She wants to hit something, someone – anything to satisfying the growling beast inside her, the hurt that twists like snakes in her belly, simmering away until it boils over and can't be ignored.

"Merely being friendly." He looks up this time, his eyes a shock of color in the smoky, dim bar. They're surprisingly focused and intent on her. "You seem like perhaps you could use a bit of friendliness."

"You have no idea what I could use," she shoots back, the tequila's warmth stretching into the tips of her fingers.

He shrugs, lifting the glass to his lips and pouring the remaining contents down his throat. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you've got the look of someone trying to forget, darling, and it just so happens I'm on the same mission."

The bartender returns, and he smoothly orders refills for the both of them. She raises an eyebrow, but doesn't protest. If he wants to buy her drinks, let him.

"What brings you here, love? Man troubles?"

"It's not any of your business." She pauses, watching him from the corner of his eye as he sips his rum with a nod. He doesn't push for more, but somehow she finds herself explaining anyway. "It's not your business, but you're not wrong. How did you know?"

"Beautiful woman like you in a place like this, there's usually only one reason."

"And why are you here? Woman troubles?" she asks, ignoring the compliment.

"Are you saying you find me beautiful?" He smirks, something dark and dangerous drifting into his stare.

"Forget I asked."

"I'll tell you what, love. I've got a room just down the street. Should you like to join me, I will provide you any manner of distraction you like." There's heat in the words, in spite of the slight stumble as he gets to his feet. "Or, you can sit in this bar by yourself and drown your sorrows in cheap tequila." He shrugs again, tossing cash on the bar. "Myself, I'm hoping for the former, but it's your call, darling."

Emma tosses back the rest of her drink, giving herself a moment to think. Before the burn has even begun to fade, she's made up her mind. He's right – sitting here alone with her hurt and desire to throttle someone is not preferable to losing herself in whatever pleasure he can offer. It's not as though spending another hour sitting here dancing around it will change what either of them are looking for tonight, and by the sound of his voice alone, there's pleasure to be had.

She throws some cash on the bar and follows him out. They don't talk as they walk down the sidewalk, a foot of space separating them. The cold night air slips between them and runs its fingers down the collar of her leather jacket until she's shivering, but she doesn't move closer.

He leads her into the lobby of a surprisingly nice hotel, glancing over his shoulder to be sure she's still with him. It should be awkward, but it's not. She checks her phone, notes the time, and pockets it again as they step into the elevator. He leans back against the wall, watching the numbers tick by until the door opens and he steps out.

But when the door to his room closes behind them, he's got her up against it, his hips pressing to hers, his lips demanding her response. And she gives it to him, because he's an attractive man, and she's lonely and she just needs to _feel_ something other than the old hurts, and if that something is going to be the scrape of his stubble on her thighs, then so be it.

It's far from gentle. When the light is just right, she catches the loneliness in his eyes, the desperate need to fill the dark places with something else, _anything_ else. But it's gone as quick as it was there, and her eyes slip shut as he drags his teeth across her collarbone before ducking his head lower. They haven't made it past the door, their clothes in a heap around them as he spins her around, her hands braced against the cool metal, and then he's there, surging forward with one sharp thrust she's more than ready for.

There's no waiting for her to adjust, no moment to savor the connection; they're just moving together, chasing a high. Her legs burn and his fingers dig into her hips, pushing and pulling, and it's not enough and far too much.

In the aftermath, the desperate edge fades, his grip soft as he pulls her back around for a lingering kiss. He still tastes like rum, and when they break apart, there's a deep sadness in his eyes despite the physical pleasure they've just wrung from each other.

But she's not ready to leave yet, not with that look in his eyes and something inside her still craving a man's touch despite her pounding pulse. So she smirks, glancing over his shoulder at the king size bed before sliding her hand down his chest. "Done so soon?" Her voice is breathless, his eyes widening ever so slightly with pleasant surprise.

"Hardly." It's more of a growl than anything, but they're moving toward the bed. She pushes him down this time, her hands and mouth torturing him until she has him where she wants him, nestled between her thighs as she sinks down.

It's an erotic dance they repeat again and again long into the night. He falls asleep quickly, and she's so tired if she were to close her eyes, she would too. But she can't, not with his lonely eyes to match hers, so she moves quietly through the dark room, finds her clothes by the door, and slips out into the fading night without bothering to learn his name.

She goes back to her room at a much shabbier establishment, crawls into the scratchy sheets and falls into a restless sleep. There's a flicker of regret – the man knows what he's about in the bedroom – but it's better this way. She's two hundred miles from the place that might be home, and in her limited analysis, he's just as messed up as she is.

This isn't the first time she's met a man in a bar and gone back to his room. It's not the first time she hasn't known his name. But those men, they weren't looking to fill a void like this one so obviously was – they were just looking to get laid. She was the only one chasing demons in those encounters, and those men were oblivious.

They didn't have despair in their eyes that tugs at her soul weeks later. It clung to him like the tendrils of a morning fog no matter how deeply he groaned as she moved above him, or how satisfied his smirk as she came undone beneath him. It's not a sight she'll soon forget.

Another bar, another town, and she's supposed to be meeting her best friend – her only friend – for dinner, but she can't face him without a little liquid courage first. David is so together – a wife, a baby on the way, a beautiful house – and Emma just… _isn't_. But she promised she'd put in more of an effort to make plans when she's in town, so here she is, trying to work up the courage to go have a perfect family dinner.

She's lost in thought as she walks into the Rabbit Hole, giving herself the same pep talk she goes though every time she comes back to Storybrooke. She isn't paying attention when she slides onto an empty barstool, her only warning a faint tingling along the back of her neck. Instinct causes her to finally look up, only to find the last thing she expects – a pair of hauntingly familiar blue eyes.

"Hello, love," he drawls out slowly, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip in a display of nerves that throws her. "Never thought I'd see you again."

"Likewise." She hesitates, because now she isn't sure if she should go or stay. Perhaps this is karma kicking her in the ass for going to a bar before dinner at David's.

"Well, as you're here…buy you a drink?"

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Is that so?" There's an undercurrent in the words, a hint of self-loathing Emma understands all too well. "Afraid you might have to tell me your name this time if you accept?"

"How do I know you haven't already figured it out and stalked me here?" she snaps without any real sting, signaling the bartender. A glance at her phone reveals she needs to be out of this bar in the next ten minutes if she has a prayer of making it to David's on time. "The last time I saw you, we were in a different state. And it's not like you were quick to offer up a name yourself."

"Killian Jones." He drains the remainder of his drink, setting the glass down and offering his hand. He's wearing the silver ring again, a thick band around his thumb.

"Look, if I wasn't expected somewhere tonight, we could do this. I could tell you my name, you could pretend you care, and we could have a repeat performance in whatever hotel room you've got for the night. I don't usually do repeat performances, but I figure the odds of seeing you again are minimal enough to not make a difference. Unfortunately, I _do_ have somewhere I need to be."

"That's quite a long name, darling."

Emma rolls her eyes, silently cursing the busy bar and the bartender who has yet to appear. "Somewhere. To. Be."

"I'm in town for a few nights visiting a friend. Do you have somewhere to be every night, lass?"

"If I tell you my name, will you quit with the ridiculous pet names?"

"Perhaps." His lips curl into a smirk, fingers finding hers on the bar and tugging her hand to his lips. She shivers in spite of herself as he brushes against her knuckles, the formalness of the gesture a surprise considering the man has had her several times over. "Perhaps I'd merely like to know the name of the woman I'll have in my bed tonight."

Emma snatches her hand back instantly, meeting his low chuckle with a glare. "I already told you I have somewhere to be."

"Aye, you've said. But as you've come to a bar before attending to your evening, I trust it's not a place you wish to linger. Which leads us back to your name, love."

"You're awfully certain of yourself, aren't you?"

He shrugs, drawing a finger through the moisture that's accumulated on the bar from the sweating glass. "You're still here, darling."

"The bartender is slow. I haven't gotten my drink."

"There are seats open at the other end of the bar."

She grits her teeth, because damn the man, his offer and the low rumble of his voice so close to her ear she rubs her thighs together in an attempt to ease the sudden ache. If it were anyone but David she had plans with, she would be sorely tempted to blow him off to have another round with the man next to her. But he's right – she won't be there all night.

"Where are you staying?" she asks before she can stop herself, her eyes on the liquor bottles behind the bar rather than on his face.

"Why, I don't even know your name, love."

The bartender finally appears, saving her from an immediate reply. Killian orders another rum, and Emma goes straight for the tequila. David will probably smell it on her, and she'll catch hell for it, but the night has taken a turn she isn't prepared for.

"Emma Swan," she finally says after the first gulp of her drink, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. It isn't particularly surprising he's watching her, the weight of his stare setting her cheeks on fire and a tingle down her spine.

"Well, Emma, I'm at the bed and breakfast down the block, and I will be for the next week. Room 305." He grins, something shifting in his eyes until they're dark and lust-soaked, and his voice is lower when he speaks again. "Do drop by anytime."

"We'll see." She swallows the last of her tequila, a pleasant warmth in her stomach that has _nothing_ to do with the promise of Killian Jones and the things he can do with his tongue. She may not be willing to give him the satisfaction of a response now, but she already knows she'll end up in his bed. "I need to go."

He stands when she does, and all the warning she gets is a gleam in his eye before he's got his hand in her hair and his lips on hers. The kiss is unexpected, and a flood of memories dance across her vision as her body responds, liquid fire igniting in her veins as his stubble scrapes her cheek. He breaks the kiss but leans closer, his body pressed up against hers. "A little incentive to return." His breath is hot against her skin, his gaze wicked when he finally backs away.

Her cheeks are still red when David opens the door, but with any luck he'll chalk it up to the cold. Early December in Maine isn't exactly balmy, and she walked from the bar. "I was beginning to worry you weren't going to make it," he says in greeting, but his voice is as warm and welcoming as the glow of the candles in the windows. David pulls her into the house, wrapping her in a brotherly hug.

"I'm here," she assures him, returning the hug and breathing in the homey scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meat. David is the closest thing she has to family, and while it takes some courage to face him when she's such a mess, she's never sorry for her visits. One of these days he might even succeed in his attempts to get her to stay, to do more with her apartment than use it as a glorified storage unit.

"Emma!" Mary Margaret appears in the archway leading to the dining room and rushes forward to claim a hug of her own. She's barely showing, her cream sweater revealing a small bump, but she practically glows with happiness. "I'm so glad you're in town for the week. We've missed you!"

"I missed you guys, too," she says, and she means it.

"Are you sure you can't stay through Christmas?" Mary Margaret asks, looping her arm through Emma's and leading her back through the dining room to the kitchen. The table is already set, linen napkins and gleaming cutlery like a page out of a home magazine. Emma brushes a wind-snarled curl back behind her ear as she looks away, trying not to think about the fact she doesn't even own a dining room table. "You can stay with us if you don't want to deal with the apartment. We've got plenty of room, and we'd love to have you."

"I can't," Emma replies automatically, banishing the longing the words bring. Maybe it would be nice to stay, to let the warmth of the only two people in the world who mean anything wrap around her and keep her company this Christmas, but who is she kidding? She won't survive a month with them without feeling just how much she's failed at building a life for herself when theirs is so perfect.

"The offer still stands. I could always use a deputy. I know Storybrooke isn't Boston or New York, but it's steady work." David's brows knit together, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Hell of a lot safer, too."

"David." Mary Margaret's smile is just a little too bright, a note of warning in her voice. They have this argument every time Emma is in town – David doesn't like her job, and Emma doesn't like him trying to tell her what to do.

He sighs, slinging an arm around Emma's shoulders and pressing a kiss to her hair. "We just want you to be happy, Emma."

"I'm happy," she replies automatically, but the words stick in her throat, hollow even to her own ears. She doesn't move from David's casual embrace, the brotherly gesture the only genuine affection she really allows from the men in her life.

Her thoughts flicker to Killian Jones and the soft press of his lips against her knuckles without her permission.

"Are you cold?" David asks, dropping his arm and turning toward the living room. "I'll throw another log on the fire. You could get a real winter coat too, you know!" he calls over his shoulder as he disappears through the archway.

"Thanks, Dad!" she shouts back, rolling her eyes at Mary Margaret. "So how are you feeling?"

"Like I swallowed a watermelon." Mary Margaret wrinkles her nose, but her hand strays back to her stomach, rubbing almost absently. "But David has been so good about everything. He's going to be an amazing father."

"I bet he'll nag that kid to put on a coat before it's even born."

Mary Margaret laughs, cracking open the oven door to check on the roasting chicken before straightening. "You're probably right. What about you? Anyone interesting from your travels?"

Emma usually regales Mary Margaret with the tales of her would-be suitors from her time on the road, the ridiculous things men say to her. Occasionally there's one worth talking a little more about, one whose name she bothered to learn, but today she hesitates. Because as soon as Mary Margaret asked the question, Killian Jones and his bright blue eyes popped up once again.

"Emma? Did you actually _meet_ someone?"

"Oh, you know, just the usual assortment of bad pickup lines." Emma forces a laugh, turning to the cabinet to get a glass to cover her blush. "No one special."

"All right, keep him to yourself for now. But I'm ready to listen whenever you want to tell me about him."

"There's nothing to tell," Emma protests as she turns back around, pouring a generous glass of wine from the bottle on the counter and taking a deep sip.

"Nothing to tell about what?" David asks as he comes back into the room, the subtle scent of wood smoke clinging to his sweater.

"Nothing," Emma answers before Mary Margaret can. "So tell me, what are the latest criminal escapades in Storybrooke?"

David exchanges a glance with his wife before he answers, but somewhere in their silent conversation he decides to drop the matter. He launches into a story about his latest arrest, and the night passes without further incident.

Emma leaves with a promise to meet Mary Margaret for lunch the next day at Granny's – damn if the woman doesn't still serve the best grilled cheese she's ever had – and shoves her hands in her pockets to ward against the wind coming off the harbor. She declined David's offer to give her a ride back to her car, not wanting to explain what it's doing parked in front of the Rabbit Hole.

She sets out down the sidewalk, determined to walk directly past the bed and breakfast attached to Granny's, get in her car, and go back to her apartment. Seeing Killian tonight won't help matters, not with David and Mary Margaret fresh in her mind. No, Killian won't be a distraction – he'll be a reminder of yet another thing she can't get right.

Emma Swan doesn't meet a nice man and get married and have a baby. She has one night stands, and upon finding herself presented with an offer of more, runs in the other direction.

* * *

Killian takes a deep breath as he settles back onto his barstool, brushing his thumb over his lip with the taste of Emma still on his tongue. He catches the bartender's eye, pointing to his empty rum glass, thoughts churning.

He never thought to see the lass again, but yet here she is, almost two months to the day since another bar in another town led to a night he hasn't been able to forget.

"Emma Swan," he mumbles under his breath, rolling her name on his tongue like a fine liquor to be savored. He hadn't been completely surprised when he woke alone in that hotel room, her scent on the sheets though she was obviously long gone. He _had_ wished for her name, for some way of contacting her, and the universe had conveniently dropped her in his lap in Storybrooke, Maine of all places.

Her eyes were just as haunted tonight as they had been then – and just as beautiful.

Scowling, Killian takes a drink from his freshly filled glass of rum, savoring the burn. He doesn't know a thing about her, really, but he wants to, and that's a terrifying thought. His finger traces an outline of the ink etched into his skin below his sleeve, his penance and a reminder of everything he's lost.

He's not even sure why he came. Between life and his deployments, he hasn't seen his friend in years – not since Liam's wedding – but for some reason he accepted this invitation in a moment of weakness.

Christmas is coming and it's not like he has anywhere else to go.

His eyes slip closed at the pain of holidays gone past, Liam's teasing and the yearly unspoken competition to drink the most eggnog without falling over. But Liam is the reason Killian was in that bar, desperate for a distraction, when Emma Swan walked in with her lonely eyes.

He misses his brother, but they haven't spoken since that night.

It's better Killian stays away, far away, from Liam and his beautiful wife and successful career. They both had the same crappy childhood, but somehow, Liam's made something of himself.

Killian is still lost.

He curses under his breath, swallowing the last of the rum and slapping some bills onto the bar to cover his tab. He isn't expected until tomorrow, but he was restless and his things are already packed away into a storage unit, so here he is, rudderless on the edge of the sea.

The wind catches him in the face as he turns toward the harbor, even the turned up collar of his jacket doing little to ward off the chill. He ignores the bite of winter in the air, following the sound of the surf to the docks. His breath steams into the night as the moonlight reflects off the calm waters all the way to the horizon, beckoning.

Sometimes he wishes the sea would swallow him up, never to return – even if that means leaving behind the only family he has left.

The cold has gotten into his bones by the time he turns back toward town, stopping to purchase a bottle of rum from the liquor store before it closes. Thoughts of Emma swirl around him as the stairs to his room groan beneath his feet, and a fierce rush of desire floods his veins.

He would like nothing more than to share his bed with her tonight, but he saw the touch of fear in her eyes lurking behind her shock. He may have thought he would never see her again, but she _planned_ to never see him again. It stings more than it should, but he wasn't his most gentlemanly that night, either. If she does show, he'll apologize for his behavior, take his time with her, show her he isn't the sort of man who makes a habit of not learning the names of the women he beds.

The floorboards give her away.

He thinks it's his imagination at first, the settling of the building around him. It's quiet at this hour. The tourist season has passed, so it's not as though there are many others under this roof tonight. But then he hears the creak again, and a glance at his door shows a shadow shifting in the sliver of light beneath.

Setting his book on the nightstand, he takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. He truly hadn't expected her tonight, perhaps not at all, and he's long since changed into a pair of loose pants and nothing more. It's tempting to cross the room and fling the door open, pull her into his arms and forget his troubles for the night, but he's already seen that particular film.

Instead, he opens the door slowly, offering an inviting smile when his eyes meet her wide ones. "Evening, Swan," he says softly, stepping back and holding the door open. "Would you like to come in?"

She nods, stepping through the door without a word. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, her hair falling down her back in long, golden curls, but her shoulders are tense.

"Can I offer you a drink?" He points to the bottle of rum on the small table by the window. "Afraid the choices are rather limited."

"No," she replies, her voice hoarse. He has but a moment to wonder on that, on why it is she sounds like she may have been crying, but then she's in his arms and her lips are on his, urgent and demanding. His arms tighten around her the moment she's against him, the zipper of her jacket cold against his bare skin, and her hair smelling of wood smoke.

He doesn't stop her when she shrugs out of her jacket, the leather falling to a heap on the floor at their feet. The V-neck sweater beneath exposes more of her creamy skin, and he breaks the kiss to take advantage, working his way along her jaw and down the column of her throat.

The vibration of her low moan under his lips goes straight to his groin, but he pulls back when he feels her going for the waist of his pants. "Slow down, love," he murmurs, drawing her flush to steal another kiss, his fingers in her hair.

"I didn't come here for slow." There's a tremble to the words, and when he tilts her chin up to look her in the eye, he sees a dam about to burst. "You didn't want slow last time." The words are harsh, and her eyes narrow as he continues watching her. "You took exactly what you wanted. Well, here I am, ready for the taking."

The words are laced in pain, the tremor in her voice stealing into her body, but her stare doesn't waver. "Emma, the last time…I do not make a habit of bedding women whose names I don't know. That night…" His own eyes slide shut for a moment, memory washing over him and the familiar guilt wrapping tight around his throat. "I was not entirely myself that night."

Her expression shutters instantly. "This was a mistake." She pulls away and he doesn't stop her, watching as she bends to pick up her coat from the floor.

"Emma." He moves slowly, giving her the chance to avoid his touch, but she just watches him like a cornered animal as he presses his palm to her cheek, his fingers reaching for her hair. "Tell me what you need, love. Tell me what you came here for."

"To forget," she whispers, her voice cracking as she takes a step back. "But I shouldn't have come. Enjoy your visit with your friend."

"Wait," he calls after her, catching her shoulder just as she's about to slip out the door. She turns back to him slowly, her jaw tight and a glimmer in her eyes that brings an ache to his chest. "Give me a chance, love. Whoever he was, I'm not him."

"How do you know…"

"Open book, darling." He taps on his forearm where his tattoo is visible, suppressing his own wince. "I know a thing or two about pain and wanting to forget. But you're the first person I haven't wanted to forget in some time, Emma Swan."

A single tear escapes and slides down her cheek, and for a moment, he thinks he's convinced her. This wasn't what he intended for tonight, and he's not even sure how they got here in the five minutes since he opened the door. When he asked her to slow down, he simply wanted to savor having her again, spend a little more time in her arms before he knew she'd be out the door. But with that look in her eyes, that haunted, terrified look, all he wants to do is soothe her pain and maybe his along with it.

"I have to go," she whispers and then she's gone.

Killian curses, leaning back against the closed door and rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. A headache is beginning behind his brows, a steady drum beating a tattoo of his many failings and shortcomings. Snatching the bottle of rum up from the table, he takes a long drink and watches through the window as Emma Swan walks out of his life.

* * *

Emma makes it to her car before the tears begin in earnest, pouring unchecked down her cheeks. She can barely see through them, but it's a short drive back to her apartment, and she needs to get away from Killian Jones before she does something stupid.

She wasn't going to go to him tonight. She knew her emotions were already running rampant after a night with David and Mary Margaret, their lingering touches and soft looks a constant reminder that she is incapable of making anyone happy. Her feet had their own idea, bringing her to room 305 and the promise of a few hours of distraction.

But the man she found tonight was not the same man as the one in Boston, the one who had her against the door the minute she was in his arms. _That_ man's touches didn't linger, didn't carry anything other than pure lust. The man who looked at her tonight, oh, he desired her too – but he also _cared_. It was all over his face the moment he said to slow down, the moment their eyes met and she couldn't hide the cracks in her veneer.

And maybe it would be different, if he wasn't just in town for a few days. Maybe if there was any chance of a future, maybe she would have stayed, because even if Mary Margaret and David are a reminder of her failings, they have also always been her secret hope – that somewhere out there in the world, she could find someone who would look at her how they look at each other. And for a fraction of a second, there was something in Killian's eyes, something that reminded her of that look.

 _It's for the best_ , she tells herself as she drags herself up the three flights of stairs to her apartment and shoves the key into the old lock. He's plainly just as messed up as she is, that tattoo and the bone-deep ache in his voice impossible to forget. She didn't get a good look at it, but from what she could tell, talons slashed across his forearm, something in their grasp. If ever pain was defined in an image, it's there in the inked gashes she can't unsee.

The loft is dark, but she doesn't bother turning on a light as she stumbles across the room and up the stairs to her bed. She shoves the pile of clothes and papers littering the mattress to the floor and kicks off her boots before curling up on top of the quilt. _It's for the best_ , she repeats as her eyes close, exhaustion taking hold.

Tomorrow she'll call her boss and see if there's work that needs doing, week off be damned. She can't stay here, not knowing it's a tiny town and Killian Jones will be here for the next however many days. She'll leave after lunch with Mary Margaret, and this time, Killian's sad blue eyes will be firmly behind her.

Yet morning arrives, and it's her luck there is no work to be had. "The holidays are coming, Emma. Even the criminals seem to be laying low. I'll call you when something comes up," her boss says, the sound of paper being shuffled in the background. "Enjoy the extra time with your family. Gotta go."

She tosses her cell phone onto the kitchen counter with a growl of frustration, glancing around the dusty apartment. The office she works for is based out of Boston, but she's the one who goes on the out of state assignments, tracking down the people who _really_ don't want to be found. It's worked out for her the last few years, never staying long in any single place, but there are still boxes littering the apartment.

David found her this apartment. David came to Florida to get her, driving through the night by the look of him when he arrived, and helped her load her meager positions into the back of his pickup. He helped her carry her things in, and he held her when she finally broke down sobbing on the floor.

She tried to stay after that, for David's sake. But Emma couldn't take it, the concerned looks and the smothering presence, so she made a few calls and got herself out of town.

She's been running ever since.

Mary Margaret frowns the moment Emma slides into the booth across from her, her hands already cupped around a mug of cocoa. Another sits in front of Emma, a liberal sprinkle of cinnamon on the whipped cream. "Did you get any sleep?"

"Is that your way of telling me I look like shit?"

"I didn't say that." She sighs, reaching across the table and squeezing Emma's hand. "I know something was bothering you last night when you came to the house. You can talk to me."

"It's not important."

"Emma."

Staring down into the whipped cream, Emma takes a deep breath before looking back up at her friend. "I ran into someone before I came over last night that I…I had a one night stand with. I didn't think I'd ever see him again, but then he shows up at the Rabbit Hole, and it just threw me."

"Just a one night stand?" Mary Margaret lifts an eyebrow, taking a sip of her drink and setting the mug back down with an unreadable expression.

Emma laughs, a bitter laugh she doesn't mean to let out. "You know as well as I do that's the only kind of relationship I'm any good for."

"I don't believe that."

"You can believe whatever you want, but the facts are the facts. Neal stole my money and left me. Walsh cheated on me _after_ he proposed. August turned out to be gay. How many more times do I bother trying before I just accept I'm not relationship material?"

"Do I have to remind you how David and I met?"

That draws a genuine smile from Emma. She still remembers David's black eye from the night he met Mary Margaret. "No, I know that story, trust me. I was there."

"You don't think that maybe the universe was giving you a little push having this guy show up in town?"

"And even if it was, what then? He said he's only here for a few days."

"A lot can happen in a few days. I'm just saying, don't dismiss it so quickly."

"It doesn't matter. I…the way we left it…that ship has sailed. He probably never wants to see me again, anyway." Emma ignores the sharp pain the words slash through her, swallowing against the tightness in her throat at the remembered look in his eyes right before she walked away.

Mary Margaret squeezes her hand, a look of sympathy on her face. "I don't believe that either, but we can talk about something else."

"Tell me about the baby. Do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet?" Emma sips her hot chocolate, shoving down all thoughts of Killian Jones as Mary Margaret lights up.

They spend the rest of their lunch talking about the baby – it's a boy – and the plans for the nursery. Not wanting to return to her disaster of an apartment, Emma volunteers to paint the nursery while she's in town, and they spend a pleasant hour walking around town to pick up supplies before heading back to the house.

It's dark by the time Emma puts the finishing touches on the second coat of paint, a pale green with white trim. Mary Margaret smiles happily as Emma climbs off the ladder, and her happiness is contagious. "You're going to be a great mom," she tells her friend, impulsively hugging her.

"You're going to be a great aunt," Mary Margaret replies as the women separate. "You're family, Emma. I know you didn't have family growing up, but you have me, and you have David. And you will have a nephew who loves you."

Emma swallows past the sudden lump in her throat. "Thank you," she manages to get out, turning back to the paint cans and brushes. "I should get this cleaned up."

They gather up the supplies, carefully wrapping the empty paint cans in plastic sheeting. Emma deposits the whole mess directly into the garbage can outside, meeting David in the driveway. "Painting?" he asks in greeting, and it's only then that Emma notices the smudges of paint on her face and hands…and the T-shirt of his she borrowed at Mary Margaret's insistence she not ruin her sweater.

"The nursery. I wanted to help while I was here."

"Did you get any on the walls by chance?" he asks with a chuckle, easily side-stepping her swat. "C'mon, I want to see this."

They go inside, and Emma takes over paintbrush cleaning while Mary Margaret takes David to see their handiwork. The low hum of their voices carry down the stairs, and she wouldn't have thought it possible with how the day started, but Emma finds herself in a rare moment of contentment.

Maybe she _should_ stay this time. Mary Margaret could use her help with getting ready for the baby, and they'll need someone once he's born. If Emma took the deputy job, David would probably have more free time, and she could handle things for awhile when the baby is born.

A knock at the door startles her from her thoughts and she pauses, listening for either David or Mary Margaret on the stairs. Neither of them appear, so when a second knock sounds, Emma turns off the water and heads for the door, wiping her hands on her jeans. Not bothering to check the peephole, she swings the door open only to be met with the same pair of startling blue eyes she's been trying so hard to forget.

"Emma?" He seems just as baffled to see her as she is him, and he scratches nervously at his ear, his eyes darting to the numbers fixed beside the door. "How…"

"What are you doing here?"

"Killian! You made it!" She jumps at the sound of David's voice behind her, moving out of the way in stunned silence as he pulls the man in for a back-slapping hug. "Hey, this is Emma," he says as he yanks Killian into the house. "Emma, this is Killian. We went to high school together, and then he went off and joined the Navy."

"Hello, Killian," Emma forces herself to say, plastering on a welcoming smile. She's suddenly very conscious of the paint on her hands and face, the baggy T-shirt and messy hair knotted on top of her head.

 _Fuck you too, universe._

"Nice to meet you, Emma," Killian says after a beat, holding out his hand. With David standing right there, she offers her own, gritting her teeth when he brushes his lips against her knuckles just as he did in the bar.

"She's practically my sister, Jones. Your tricks won't work on her."

David's words break the spell, and a flush rises in Emma's cheeks as she turns away. "I need to finish washing out the paint brushes before they dry," she mumbles, practically running into the kitchen to avoid having to say another word. Their voices follow, the lilt of Killian's accent scraping against every raw inch of her.

Mary Margaret finds her before long, still furiously scrubbing at the paintbrushes though the water is running clear. "Emma, you look like you've seen a ghost." Her hand lands on Emma's arm, her touch gentle. "And I think those are clean."

Emma takes a shaky breath, turning off the water and reaching for a towel to dry her hands. "I should get going. I didn't realize you and David had company tonight."

"I'm making lasagna for dinner. I know how much you like it, and even with Killian here we can't possibly finish it." Mary Margaret pauses, her eyes narrowing, and Emma realizes she winced when she heard his name just before her friend quietly asks, "Killian is the guy from the bar, isn't he? In town to visit a friend for a few days, right?"

Emma nods, watching the doorway for any sign of either of the two men. She doesn't know if she's hoping Killian appears or stays away. "Please don't tell David. I don't think he could handle a friend of his being a one night stand of mine."

Mary Margaret frowns, stepping around Emma to start pulling things out of the fridge to assemble the pan of lasagna. "Can you grab the pan from the cabinet? I cooked the noodles this morning but I need to assemble. You can help."

It isn't a question, and Emma silently turns to get down the requested pan. When she sets it on the counter, Mary Margaret hands her the bowl of noodles. "You put those in the pan and I'll layer the rest."

Emma nods, and they work in silence for a few minutes. "Have you met him before?" she finally asks, her voice quiet.

"Just once, at his brother's wedding. Remember when David and I went down to Boston a few years ago?"

"Liam _Jones_. Right. He's Liam's brother?" she asks unnecessarily, the pieces clicking into place. Liam is the closest thing David has to a best friend, and she's met him and his wife a few times when they've come up to visit. She vaguely remembers mention of a younger brother, but never a name.

"Yes he is. I know he got out of the Navy about a year ago, but I'm not sure what he's been doing since." Mary Margaret pauses, turning to look at Emma before going back to spreading on the next layer of ricotta cheese mixture. "Where did you meet him?" she asks much more quietly.

"Boston," Emma whispers, her face flaming at the memory of the night. "I…I was in town for a job, and I was walking back to my room when I passed a guy on the sidewalk. For a second, I _swore_ he was Neal. He wasn't, he was just some guy, but I was so _angry_. I walked into the next bar I came to, and, well, one thing led to another." Emma swallows past the lump in her throat, her eyes darting nervously to the doorway again. "I didn't even get his name."

Mary Margaret sighs softly, her cheese-covered fingers sliding over the counter to grasp Emma's. "Emma, that wall of yours may keep out pain, but it also may keep out love. I don't know what happened between you two in Boston, but Killian is a good man. It's not my story to tell, but you might find you have more in common than you think."

"I don't …"

"You ladies need any help?" Killian picks that moment to walk into the kitchen with David, a tentative smile on his face when Emma finally looks up.

"No, we've got it. I'm sure you two have a lot to catch up on." Emma turns her attention to David, hoping he'll take a hint and Killian along with him. "We'll let you know when it's done."

"Suit yourself." David ducks to give Mary Margaret a quick kiss, his hand falling to her stomach in a gentle caress before grabbing two beers from the fridge. "C'mon, Jones, let's get out of their way."

Emma keeps her eyes on the counter until they're gone, practically holding her breath until their voices fade. "I really think I should go."

"Emma Swan, you will do no such thing." Mary Margaret smiles to soften the words, nodding toward the bottle of wine corked on the counter. "But you can have a glass of wine or two since David will be the one to drive you home."

"My car is at the diner. I could walk."

"You're right. You could walk. Killian can go with you, since he's staying at Granny's."

"For a few days."

Mary Margaret shrugs. "You spend plenty of time in Boston for work. It's not that far. And last time I talked to Liam, it didn't sound like Killian was all that settled himself."

"You realize you're talking about moving for a guy I slept with once."

"Well, for one, you would have to spend more than a week at a time in that apartment to really say you live there. And you obviously didn't see the way he looked at you."

"He's just trying to cover up the fact that he had sex with me so David doesn't punch him."

"Emma." Mary Margaret doesn't say anything else until Emma finally looks at her, her expression unreadable. "I don't expect you to answer me, and this is the last thing I'll say about it tonight because I can see I'm upsetting you, but are you really so sure that's all he's trying to do?"

Emma doesn't answer, sipping her wine and trying not to think about the hope in Killian's bottomless eyes.

* * *

Even after his years on cramped ships, Killian isn't sure he's ever been more uncomfortable during a meal. He finds himself seated next to Emma, and the lass has plainly had several glasses of wine by the time dinner is ready. She was breathtaking in her tight dress in Boston, but the sight of her here, casual, with flecks of paint still stubbornly clinging to her cheek and wool socks on her feet, is somehow even more alluring.

She's soft in a way the cold, devastatingly beautiful woman in the bar wasn't.

But she hardly speaks, and when she does, her answers are quiet and short. She's not rude, but she's hardly welcoming either, spending most of the meal with the wineglass to her lips. He notices the glances exchanged between his three dining companions, and not for the first time since Emma opened the door, a part of him wishes he hadn't come. He peeks at her from the corner of his eye for perhaps the hundredth time during the course of the meal, wondering just what strange twist of fate is at work.

If only they could have met like normal people. Perhaps they could have been introduced at Liam's wedding, the younger siblings pushed together by their well-meaning brothers. Oh, he was a mess then too, on leave and determined to soak up as much living in the two weeks reprieve he was granted as possible, but maybe the sight of her would have sobered him up.

Maybe if he had met her before going back, he would have had something to live for. Maybe things would have turned out differently.

"Killian?" Mary Margaret's smile is hesitant when he meets her stare, belatedly realizing she'd ask him a question he hadn't heard. "Are you all right?"

"Of course. My apologies. What was it you were asking?"

For some reason, her eyes flicker toward Emma, whose face has gone curiously pale, before she repeats her question. "Last time we talked with Liam, he mentioned you were looking to get out of Boston for awhile. Would you have any interest in staying for Christmas? We've got plenty of extra room, and Elsa keeps telling me she wants to see the snow in Maine." There's a thump under the table, but Mary Margaret's smile doesn't falter.

"That's very kind, but I couldn't impose." He forces a grin to cover the uneasiness his brother's name brings forward. They must not have spoken to Liam since their argument – they must not have heard his brother's tirade on Killian's _wallowing_ and _sulking_.

"Impose? I haven't seen you in years, man. A few days hardly seems long enough. Unless of course there's someone waiting back in Boston you'd like to get back to?"

David's teasing makes Killian's ears burn, his cheeks flushed as his eyes find Emma's without his permission. He looks away quickly, only to find David watching him with something like curiosity. "No, mate, no one to get back to."

"What about your job?" Emma cuts in, her fingers clenched in her lap when he turns his attention to her again. She isn't looking at him, her gaze fixed steadily on her barely-touched plate.

"Haven't settled on one yet," he replies, watching as she twists the napkin into knots, her knuckles white. "I confess after so many years in the service I'm at a bit of a loss as to what comes next."

"Then why did you leave?"

Memories slam into him with the force of a cannon blast, the rattle of gunfire and the screams of wounded men. His men. His operation.

His death wish, yet he lived.

But it isn't a tale for polite dinner conversation, so he reaches down into the place he keeps his cocky smile and paints it on for her. "I grew weary of having such a small bed," he says with a raised eyebrow, a small thrill running down his spine at her flush.

* * *

It's a struggle not to slam things once she's escaped into the kitchen under the guise of cleaning up so Mary Margaret can relax by the fire. Killian never actually answered David, but Emma knows how convincing her almost-brother can be. He may or may not stick around all the way until Christmas, but his "few days" is now a thing of the past. David secured his promise to help hang lights outside on Saturday, and Saturday is four days away.

Plunging her hand into the sink, Emma lets out a hiss and jerks back, spraying soapy water everywhere. "God dammit," she curses, the gash in her palm already welling with blood. Gritting her teeth, she reaches more gingerly into the sink, carefully feeling around with her not-bleeding hand for the knife she forgot she threw in with the rest of the dishes.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," she snaps, her spine going rigid at the sound of his voice. Why, of the three possibilities, does it have to be Killian who comes to check on her?

"You're bleeding." He grabs the towel from the counter, approaching slowly and taking her hand with surprising gentleness. "Nicked yourself good."

"It's _fine_." She tries to pull her hand away, but his grip is too tight.

"No, it's not. If you keep struggling, you'll make it worse and require stitches. Hold still, love."

"So what, you're a sailor and a doctor now?"

"I'm a great many things." She hears it again, the undercurrent in his words, the promise of secrets hiding beneath the surface. For a moment, she wants to ask why it is he answers questions in half-truths and flippant jokes.

Emma remains silent as he tends to her hand, carefully dabbing at the cut first with a warm paper towel and then wrapping the dishcloth securely around her palm. He doesn't say anything either when he's finished, but he does nudge her aside and begin washing dishes while she stands next to the sink, dumbfounded.

"What are you doing?"

"Washing dishes while you hold that towel in place and be sure the bleeding stops. All that wine is sure to have thinned your blood, so keep pressure on it." His voice is smooth as amber, calm and level as he rinses first one plate and then the next. Emma watches the flash of his rings as he moves, the flex of muscle in his forearms where he's rolled up his shirtsleeves to avoid soaking them in the soapy water, tattoo on full display. The talons are just as horrifying in the bright kitchen light, bloody and wrapped around what appears to be a trident. The question is on the edge of her lips, but the memory of his quiet words is too strong – _I know a thing or two about pain and wanting to forget_.

And the other thing he confessed, the terrifying part – that _she_ 's the reason he doesn't want to forget anymore.

"Killian." She waits until he looks up at her, and shifts uncomfortably under his intense gaze. She doesn't even know why she's asking, but she can't seem to stop herself. "Are you staying? For Christmas?"

"Do you want me to?" he asks quietly, holding her stare for another moment before turning back to his task. The question hangs between them, the running water and clinking of the dishes the only noise as Emma takes one deep breath, and then another.

"I don't even know if I want me to stay for Christmas." The truth comes out without her intending it to, and she braces herself for his judgment, the questions, but he merely nods and continues to scrub at the pan he's moved on to.

"Do you live in town?" he asks eventually, rinsing the pan and carefully balancing it on the rack. His eyes shift to her, then dart back to the kitchen wall.

"I have an apartment here. According to David, whether I live in it or not seems to be up for debate."

He laughs, a genuine laugh that rumbles up from his throat and the kitchen grows just a little bit warmer. "Aye, older brothers can be like that." The words seem to sober him, his laugh fading and eyebrows knitting together as he scowls at the wall.

Emma only nods, worrying her lower lip between her teeth and pressing harder against her palm, the stab of pain giving her something to focus on other than his hands. If she stares at his hands for too long, she'll start thinking about what those hands are capable of, and whatever is going on between them in this kitchen, it can't be that.

Mary Margaret appears with the last handful of dishes, and the quiet spell is broken as she notices Emma's hand and immediately begins to fuss. It's all Emma can do to convince her that she does _not_ need stitches, that it's just a small cut and it's her own damn fault for throwing the knife in the sink in the first place. She loses the argument to slap a few bandaids over it, and by the time she's released from the bathroom, her hand is neatly bandaged in clean, white gauze.

She grabs her sweater and quickly changes out of David's T-shirt while they're upstairs. She is _not_ going to get stuck playing board games or whatever other scheme Mary Margaret has up her sleeve to push her toward Killian tonight.

She's already exhausted from the hours they've spent together. Her body refuses to forget his touch, and the longer he's around, the more she craves him. He brushes past her and she can smell his scent, a mix of cologne and salt and something else, something that lives in his skin, and she wants to crawl into his bed and never leave. But then he worries over her hand, and he washes dishes, and her heart aches because she can't actually remember any man in her life that isn't David _ever_ fussing over her.

Or washing dishes without being asked.

But regardless of what her body wants, she _needs_ to get out of this house and put some space between them before Mary Margaret's not-so-subtle looks put ideas in her head.

Or his.

"I'm going to take off," she announces, grabbing her coat from the closet by the door and poking her head into the living room. Killian is standing next to David near the fireplace, a furrow in his brow and tension in his shoulders, but he looks up at the sound of her voice.

"I can give you a ride," David offers, setting the fire poker back in the rack and brushing his hands against his jeans. "It's pretty cold tonight."

"It's all right. I'm in the mood to walk." Emma smiles as brightly as she can manage, willing David to let it be. "Besides, I don't want to cut your visit short."

"I was actually about to call it a night myself." Killian offers her a tentative smile, shoving his hands into her pockets. "May I escort you home?"

"You know it's not 1950, right? I can walk home by myself."

"Emma!" Mary Margaret frowns at her, giving a shake of her head when Killian's back is turned. She mouths _stop it_ with another emphatic shake, gesturing toward the door. "That's very sweet of you, Killian. Emma has to walk by the bed and breakfast anyway."

Emma sighs, shrugging when Killian's eyes find hers, a spark of hoping dancing along with the flames from the fireplace. "Fine. Let's go."

They say their goodbyes and step out into the night, their breath puffing in misty white clouds around them as they start down the sidewalk. Emma is careful to keep space between them and her eyes in front of her. She agreed to the walk. She didn't agree to talking.

"Emma." They're about a block from Granny's when he says her name, a quiet plea offered into the still night. She stops, takes a deep breath, and turns to him with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting with her heart pounding. "I like you," he says softly, taking a step closer when she doesn't move away. He takes a deep breath of his own, his fingers trailing over her arm to cup her cheek. She leans into his touch before she realizes it, but there's something about the look in his eyes that won't let her move away, something in his words – _I like you_ – that's too genuine to scoff at or roll her eyes.

When he kisses her, it's the barest whisper of a kiss, his lips rose petal smooth even as the scruff of his stubble scratches her cheek. He doesn't move closer, doesn't deepen the kiss, but simply pulls back with a guarded expression. "Do you truly wish to be alone tonight?"

"It's not a good idea," she says instead of giving a direct answer, finally stepping away and shoving her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket.

"Why not?"

"Because you're leaving. In a few days, in a few weeks, either way, you're not staying. And that's fine, when it's a one night thing, but, god, Killian, you can't tell me you _like_ me and ask me to spend the night." She shakes her head, an ache in her chest building the longer she looks at him, Granny's twinkling Christmas lights throwing green and red bursts of color across his face. "We both know where that ends up."

"The only thing I know is that you're the first woman, the first _person_ , who has made me feel alive in a very long time."

"From one night where you didn't know my name, and the last two where we've barely spoken?"

"Aye."

"That's a hell of a responsibility, Jones."

"It's the truth."

Emma studies him in the wash of lights, that damn melancholy clinging to his eyelashes like flakes of snow. She can see it all over his face – he's told her this in spite of believing she won't stay, in spite of being just as broken as she is behind his charming smiles and smooth words. She wishes he wouldn't look at her like that, like he's holding his heart out, waiting for her to crush it.

Like he wouldn't blame her if she did.

"Still got that bottle of rum?" she finally says, shoving her hands deeper in her pockets and glancing up at the deep velvet sky. "I could use a nightcap."

* * *

Part 2 will go up in a few days. Massive thanks to onceuponsomechaos for the last minute beta job!


	2. Chapter 2

Killian doesn't say anything in response to her question, only nods and turns back down the sidewalk with little fanfare. Emma keeps her distance, but they both start up the stairs once they reach Granny's at the same time, crashing together.

"Sorry," she mumbles, gesturing up the staircase. "Go ahead."

It doesn't get better when they walk into his room. Whatever is going on between them, she feels far more naked before him tonight fully dressed than she ever did without her clothes.

She was on a mission when she came here last night, but tonight her eyes move slowly, taking in the details. The room is immaculate, the bed made – which she knows Granny doesn't bother with in the off-season – and not a stray shoe in sight. The only evidence of his presence is the rum bottle on the table by the window and an oversized olive duffle bag set against the wall.

He hands her a generous measure of rum, the glass warm against her fingers after the icy wind. She mumbles her thanks, bringing it to her lips to cover her inability to form a coherent sentence. This is why she doesn't do this – the late night conversation and the _I like you_ and all the rest of it.

She doesn't know how.

When she finally forces herself to face him, he's leaned up against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other with his hair falling into his eyes like he should be in some black and white ad for stupidly expensive cologne. He has his own glass of rum in his hand, but it appears largely untouched.

When their eyes finally meet, it's not so much a decision she makes as a series of movements set into motion the second she walked into his room.

Emma tosses back the rest of the rum, wincing against the rush of fire down her throat as she sets the glass down and shrugs out of her jacket. She can feel Killian's eyes on her the entire time, watching as she tosses the leather over the back of a chair and kicks out of her boots. "Emma, I didn't mean…I don't expect…"

"I don't want to talk," she cuts in, stopping inches before him and tilting her head back. There's a beat of silence, but then he nods, and Emma stretches onto her toes to slant her mouth over his before his glass hits the table.

He doesn't tell her to slow down tonight.

They do make it to the bed, a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothes. Emma may not want to talk, but she does relish in the sounds she pulls from him, the low groan that rumbles through his chest and the hiss of air through his teeth. He follows her lead at first, but it isn't long before he flips them over, pressing her back into the mattress and deepening their kisses until it seems she can't take a breath without him.

It's her turn to moan as his hands and lips travel her body. Somewhere along the way his fingers find hers, twining together before he presses her hands into the mattress above her head. She's panting with need by the time his hips meet hers, but he draws it out with long, deep strokes that have her digging her nails into his hands, demanding _more more more._

And Killian gives and gives and gives.

He curls his arm around her when they're sweaty and spent, every muscle in her body loose, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder. The warmth of his uneven breaths washes over her face as he presses a kiss to her temple, her free arm lazily sprawled across his chest.

It's dangerously like cuddling, but since her heart is still racing, Emma swears that isn't what this is. She just needs a minute to catch her breath, to let the cool air dry the sweat on her skin. Then she'll gather up her clothes from wherever Killian tossed them and return to her own bed.

She waits for him to start talking, to start asking questions or try to pry into her life, but he stays silent. The arm wrapped around her shoulders is relaxed, his fingers absently trailing over whatever skin he can reach.

It's only when she realizes she's starting to nod off that Emma jerks herself awake, inadvertently elbowing Killian in the ribs in the process. "Easy, love," he mumbles against her hair, rubbing at the sore spot but not relinquishing his hold on her. If anything, he settles in closer, his skin warm and inviting. She realizes she must have actually fallen asleep for a few minutes when she discovers the quilt has been pulled up around them.

"Sorry." She blinks a few times in the dim room, the Christmas lights outside casting everything in a warm glow. For one perfect moment, her mind goes quiet and it's beautiful and cozy and Killian is here and she doesn't want to move.

But Emma isn't a woman who stays.

She waits another few minutes, waits for him to go still and his breaths to even out before starting to slip out of bed. She thinks she's made it, too, but his grip tightens on her shoulder at just the last moment. One word slips out – _stay_ – his voice rough with sleep and something else, something she can't quite put her finger on.

"I can't."

She starts to move again, but he catches her wrist, tugging hard enough to put her off balance and fall back into his arms. The coarse hair on his chest meets her sensitive skin, already tender from his previous attentions, but it's his eyes that hold her in place, glittering in time with the twinkling lights outside. His grip loosens for a moment, giving her an escape, but she's paralyzed by the thrum of his heartbeat under her palm and the endless blue of his silent question.

When she doesn't get out of bed, one arm tightens, drawing her down until his lips brush hers. "Stay," he whispers against her mouth before pressing a line of kisses along the line of her jaw. His knuckles brush up her spine, a barely there touch that brings on a shiver. His answering chuckle is low and throaty, and his arm shifts to rest lower on her hips. She expects another comment, a plea, but instead he simply winds his fingers into her hair and kisses her with all the passion of that first kiss against a hotel room door.

He rolls them easily, settling his hips between her thighs while keeping most of his weight on his forearms as he begins to kiss a path across her collarbones. All traces of sleep are wiped from his eyes when he pauses, catching her gaze with a mischief-filled smirk. His length is pressed between them, hard against her stomach, and heaven help her, leaving his bed is the last thing on her mind.

She sighs with pleasure as he eases in, dancing the fine line between too much and not enough. It's a lazy rhythm at first, and she curls her leg around his, her palm flat against flexing muscle to pull him closer.

"Stay." The word slips from his lips, a prayer against her skin just before his teeth drag gently over her earlobe. She opens her mouth to protest, to tell him he's not playing fair, but he's already there, nipping at her bottom lip, sliding his tongue against hers. He picks up his pace, shifting the angle just enough to give her what she needs as he drives into her again and again.

They're both panting by the end, pleasure curling her toes and making her eyes heavy. He folds around her, his arm around her waist and cheek pressed to her shoulder, his wildly messy hair tickling her cheek.

"One time thing," she finally says quietly, reaching to run her fingers through his damp hair and across his forehead. She can allow herself this, just this once. It's freezing outside, and it's late, and she can take care of herself but she doesn't relish walking through town on rubbery legs.

Killian nods against her skin, his lips brushing the swell of her breast. He sits up long enough to pull the covers back over them, turning onto his side and draping his arm over her waist.

She knows she shouldn't – knows that each decision tonight is sending her further and further down a path she can't take back – but she uses what little energy remains to press her shoulders against his chest. She's already halfway to unconsciousness when she hears his soft sigh of pleasure, and her last thought is how perfectly they fit.

* * *

Emma slips from his arms in the faint rays of the dawn's light, hastily dressing. It's only when she realizes he's awake and watching that she pauses, her gaze flitting around the room as though she's afraid to look at him. "I…"

"You don't have to explain, love." Killian stays in bed, fighting his instinct to tug her back and wish her a good morning with his tongue. If he's being honest, he's surprised – pleasantly, but surprised nonetheless – that she didn't sneak out while it was still dark.

"Okay, well…I'm sure I'll see you at David's. Just, uh…this…" She gestures vaguely between them, her cheeks flushing an attractive pink. "He doesn't need to know."

"As you wish." He offers her a smile full of ease he doesn't feel, the old worries already nagging at him as he watches her go.

Two steps forward, three steps back.

The day is spent hanging around the station with David, struggling to get Emma out of his head – her smile, the slip of her skin, the damp heat of her breath fanning over his shoulder, her nails forming crescent moons across his body. If David notices the burn in his cheeks, he's decent enough to not ask.

Killian doesn't dare hope the night meant anything to her, that somehow, his monumental effort to hold himself back accomplished anything.

When David extends a dinner invitation, Killian pleads exhaustion and heads back to his room to be alone with a bottle of rum, Emma's words running a loop through his head.

 _One time thing._

It's late when he hears the creak outside his door, the telltale shift of an indecisive lurker. Killian isn't in the mood to wait, and when he opens the door, Emma's smile is hesitant. "Hi," she says in greeting, her hands shoved in the pockets of the red leather jacket that suits her so well. She has a gray knit hat pulled low over her ears, and a cream scarf wrapped around her throat that gives her hair a golden shimmer as it tumbles over her shoulders.

"Evening, love." He steps back and holds the door wide. There are a million questions he wants to ask – why she's here, what it is that she thinks she's playing at, why she's so determined to keep him at arm's length – but he stays silent. She's here, and that has to count for something.

She doesn't offer an explanation for her visit, but she does step into his arms, stretching on her toes until their lips meet. She tastes like Christmas – hot chocolate and cinnamon and peppermint, the scent of snow in her hair.

Her palm rises to cup his jaw, sliding along the stubble until her fingers find his hair, nails gentle against his scalp. She presses closer, her body molding into his, but her kisses remain unhurried, one lazily chasing the other.

When she rocks back on her heels, she doesn't immediately leave his embrace. There's a question in her eyes tonight, a curiosity and hesitance all wrapped up into one thoughtful gaze that makes him dare to hope.

"Not that I'm complaining, Swan, but you made yourself fairly clear this morning," he says when it becomes clear she isn't going to speak. He chuckles nervously, avoiding her eyes and watching the play of red and green lights on the damp pavement below his window. "May I ask to what do I owe the honor of the visit?"

She shrugs, and when he glances down at her, he finds she's taken her turn to stare at the lights outside. "I honestly don't know."

"Will you be staying?"

"Do you want me to?" she asks after a beat, the question filled with uncertainty and a fragility he wouldn't have dreamed of hearing from Emma Swan.

"If I have not made myself clear, allow me to do so. I want you to stay tonight. I want you to stay every night of my visit to Storybrooke." His palm rises to rest along her neck, fingers threading through her hair. The words draw her gaze away from the lights, and he holds her stare as he continues, "And when it's time for me to leave, or for you, I want us to discuss it. I have no intention of letting you slip through my fingers, love. Not if I can help it."

She tenses, taking in a sharp breath, and he waits for her to back away. But she only breathes out slowly, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. "David asked me to stay through Christmas." The words are nearly lost in his shirt, her palms flat against his chest.

"You were present when he made the same demand of me."

That draws a laugh from her, and she leans back to share a tiny smile. "David isn't really good at requests."

"Tell that to the poor lights I will undoubtedly massacre on Saturday."

"I'll be there to revive them." Her fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt, her palms resting against his chest, and Killian is afraid to breathe too deeply. He's not sure what's happening between them – she's here, she's soft, she's _talking_ – and he doesn't want to ruin it.

"Perhaps I should inquire with Granny regarding her lighting expertise." He runs his fingers through her hair, her hum of contentment vibrating in his bones.

"I think Ruby is the one who puts up the lights."

"Ah, yes, I do believe I've met her."

Emma snorts in reply, but she doesn't move away. "I'm sure she was practically salivating over you." He can hear the forced lightness in her voice, the overly casual tone clearly hiding a flare of jealousy. It shouldn't make him happy.

But it does.

"Is that your way of admitting you find me devilishly handsome?" he teases to put her at ease, tightening the arm around her waist and drawing her closer.

When her eyes lock onto his, the fire is back, desire burning hot and the softness seared away. She doesn't answer his question, but she does kiss him again, a hungry, wild kiss that has him walking backward toward the bed in no time.

He doesn't find her a more patient lover tonight, her hands eager and a hint of something wicked in her eyes. He's beneath her before long, and there's a moment of regret because he _likes_ to take his time, but then she's moving above him and all coherent thought ceases.

She leans her head back, blonde curls tickling his thighs, the movement pushing her breasts forward. For one glorious moment he watches her, all the doubt and fear he sees so often in her completely gone as she gives herself over to him. But he's not satisfied with how far away she is, not by a long shot. His surge forward draws a throaty moan from her at the sudden change in angle as he sits up and pulls her mouth down to his.

One hand twists into her hair, holding her just where he wants her while the other coaxes her legs around his hips, pushing him deeper and her closer. She begins with her fingers tight on his shoulders, but before long her arms fold around him. Her forehead drops to his, her breath hot on his cheek with each quiet gasp as they rock together.

Killian hovers just on the edge, their position too limiting to give either of them what they need, but he savors it. Emma is completely wrapped around him, and for a span of time, everything condenses down to her quiet gasps and the small movements between them.

But she grows impatient before long, her knees falling to either side of his hips, her fingers tight on his shoulders for leverage as she speeds up. He grips her hip with one hand, aiding her movements even as he loses himself to her. Emma is a vision of flushed skin and silken hair under his fingertips, a living flame in his hands. His name falls from her lips as she tenses against him, every muscle in her body tightening before she goes boneless in his arms, her breaths harsh and her skin slick with a faint sheen of sweat. He rolls them easily, and a handful of hard thrusts pushes him over the edge with her, gasping and clinging to her.

Bloody hell, he could stay here forever.

He drops his cheek to her shoulder, brushing his lips against her skin and breathing her in, his thumb absently rubbing against her hip. She doesn't say anything, but her fingers find their way into his hair, nails lightly scraping against his scalp. The hum of contentment that rises to his lips is halfway between a sigh and groan of pleasure, and Emma laughs quietly above him.

"Worn out already?" she teases, but she doesn't stop, her touch gentle.

He smirks against her shoulder, twisting and pushing her onto her back with a laugh of his own. "Hardly. Plenty of pillaging and plundering still to be had tonight." The Christmas lights glow in her hair against the pillow, her pale skin still flushed.

"Pillaging and plundering?" she asks with a raised brow, looping her arms around his neck and returning his smirk. "What, are we pirates now?"

"We can be anything you want to be, love."

* * *

Emma changes her clothes five times Saturday morning before she throws her hands up, glaring at herself in the mirror. "You're being ridiculous," she tells her reflection, tugging on her cream sweater. The woman in the mirror only stares back, her brows knit together.

She sighs, pushing her hair off her shoulders and giving her reflection a final scowl before turning away. She doesn't even know why she's fussing – she is not, has never been, that sort of girl.

And Killian has seen every inch of her naked, so it should hardly matter if she picks the right sweater to go hang Christmas lights in. In fact, she's all but certain he wouldn't care if she had pulled last night's jeans off the floor and simply accompanied him to David's directly.

Her stomach flips at the thought, the complicated feelings she's developed regarding her situation with Killian rearing up. She runs a brush through her hair and swipes on a layer of mascara as a distraction, but it doesn't make her forget that though she had slipped out with the dawn again this morning, he's convinced her to stay every night.

He didn't even have to ask last four or five hours she sleeps in Killian's bed leave her feeling more rested than she can remember – and that's a secret she's kept to herself.

 _Killian_ is a secret she's kept to herself. She hasn't said anything more to Mary Margaret about the man, and she definitely hasn't mentioned him to David. She's managed to avoid all four of them being together over the last several days, but she already promised she would help with the lights.

And a part of her, a terrified, dangerous part of her, wants to see Killian again though it's barely been four hours.

But she hasn't seen him outside his room since the first night at David's, and she's strangely nervous about seeing him today. It's bound to be awkward – there was no conversation about how they would act today, no decision made as to what they are or aren't to each other. Emma isn't even sure she even knows the answer herself.

Cursing at the time, she snatches her keys off the counter and jogs down the stairs to her car, shivering in the cold. There's a bite in the wind today, the smell of snow in the air, and in spite of her thick coat and gloves, it's going to be awfully cold hanging those lights.

Killian and David are already outside when she pulls up, standing next to a ladder and gesturing wildly toward the roof line. As she gets out of the car, she can see the tangle of lights at their feet.

She should have stopped at the liquor store.

"You put the lights on the roof, David, not the grass!" she shouts from the curb, grinning when he turns toward her. "What will Mary Margaret say?"

"She'll say it's a damn good thing you finally showed up. Help a man out. Killian says we should be putting up white lights and not…"

"Colored over-sized monstrosities!" Killian cuts in, pointing to the heap. "Swan, tell your brother he has a perfectly lovely home, and it will look bloody ridiculous with enormous flashing lights."

"They'll be fine. Granny has them up all over the diner…"

"Exactly, mate! Your house is not a bloody diner!"

Emma can't help but laugh, glancing toward the front door. At least the wreath is already up, a perfect red bow trailing over the evergreen. "What did Mary Margaret say?"

" _Don't fall off the roof, dear_ ," David replies, mimicking his wife's voice and rolling his eyes. "C'mon, Emma, help me out. My wife has abandoned me to a madman."

Emma hesitates, caught between the two of them. She agrees with Killian – the white lights would look better on David and Mary Margaret's house because it is definitely _not_ a diner. But she also knows there are no white lights in the monstrous tangle, and she does _not_ want to be nominated to take the thirty minute drive to the nearest Home Depot or Target to buy more.

Her hesitation costs her, and Killian pounces. "C'mon, Swan, admit it. I'm right and Dave is just plain wrong." He steps closer as he says it, and the breeze carries the scent of him toward her. His cheeks have gone red in the cold, making the color of his eyes pop and dance.

She sucks in a breath, forcing herself to look away from him. The last thing she needs is for David to catch them staring at each other like horny teenagers. "Um, I think…" She looks longingly at the door, an escape into the warm house where she can hide from them both, and lets out her breath in a rush. "IthinkKillianisright."

"Oh, Emma." David shakes his head at her while Killian whirls on David, grinning like a fool.

"I _told_ you, mate!" Killian proceeds to do some sort of celebratory dance that looks a whole lot more like flailing about than anything. He looks ridiculous, and she can't help but burst out laughing, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other clamped over her mouth.

David narrows his eyes at her, ignoring Killian completely. "Traitor." He glances back down at the mess of lights before casting his eyes to the sky. The clouds have grown darker since Emma left her apartment, and she _really_ hopes it doesn't snow before they finish this project. She needs new tires badly and does not relish the thought of walking home.

"Well, since you two think you know better than anyone what lights should go on _my_ house, you can go to the store for new ones." David does his best to sound stern, but he's incapable of it. Deep down, Emma thinks he already knew the lights from his college dorm room really aren't acceptable for the house he shares with his wife. It's bad enough he's put them up the last few years.

"Sounds like a marvelous idea to me. Let's go, Swan. I'll even drive since you were kind enough to assist me with proving Dave wrong." Killian offers her a gleeful grin, pulling a set of keys out of his jacket pocket.

"You have a car?" she blurts out, glancing at the vehicles parked along the curb.

"Of course I have a car, love. Did you think I sailed here on a pirate ship?" he asks, a gleam in his eye bringing a flush all the way to the tips of Emma's ears. All that talk of _pillaging and plundering_ the other night has already led to a ridiculous amount of pirate jokes – not to mention the filthy things he whispered in her ear while they were in bed.

"Pirate ship?" David's brows furrow in confusion, and that's Emma's queue to grab hold of Killian's arm and start dragging him toward the road.

"We'll be back soon," she calls over her shoulder unnecessarily, firmly ignoring the heat of Killian beside her and the muscle flexing under her fingers. In spite of the cold, he's only wearing a thin leather coat.

"You drove this thing around Boston?" she asks when they come to a stop beside a gleaming oversized pickup. There isn't a single dent or scratch in the polished black paint, an impressive feat for city driving.

"I mostly kept it in a garage, but it's been handy for throwing a kayak in the back."

"A kayak?"

"Aye. All pirate jokes aside, I do enjoy being on the sea." He unlocks and opens her door for her, waiting until she clambers into her seat to close the door behind her. It dawns on her in that moment that they're about to spend the next hour or two alone together, picking out Christmas lights and _talking_.

 _What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

Emma shivers in the blast of wind from Killian getting into the car, and damn if he doesn't notice. He turns the key in the ignition and immediately sets the heat to high and presses another button. "Sorry, love. Give it a minute and the seat heater will warm you right up."

She nods in response, watching out of the corner of her eye as he fiddles with the heat, then the radio, as he makes his way out of David's neighborhood. The silence between them is awkward, and if they were in his room, she would press against him, but it's not an option.

"Why did you leave Boston?" The question escapes without her permission, and she cringes, turning to look out the window rather than at him. "I'm sorry, that's none of my business."

"My brother and I had a bit of a falling out," he says quietly after a moment, and when she glances at him, his knuckles are tight against the steering wheel. "I spent most of my military career deployed on a ship or living on a base. When I left, Liam offered me his spare room. The cost of living in Boston being what it is, I stayed on. It seemed pointless to waste my savings on rent. That first night…the night we met, Liam and I argued. He didn't quite tell me to get out, but the message was there."

The pain in his eyes that night crashes through her thoughts, the anger and despair a living thing between them as they'd clawed at each other in the dark. They had both been running from ghosts, even if they hadn't known at the time, and perhaps it's that shared anguish that brings out the desire to tell him her own truth.

"I thought I saw my ex on the street. It was sort of a whirlwind, and we moved to Florida together after only dating for a month. I always wanted to move down there, and everything with Neal was an adventure – until I came home one day to an eviction notice on our door and a pissed off landlord wanting three months worth of rent Neal never paid. He was long gone, the money I'd given him for rent and the jar of cash I kept in the apartment with him."

"What a bloody bastard."

"Yeah. David came and got me. That was almost two years ago." She watches the trees go by, the heavy evergreen boughs swaying in the wind among the bare trees. They've made it to the highway, a long stretch of empty road between them and their task.

"And not a word since?"

"Not a one." Emma sighs, glancing down at her hands and chipping at a torn nail. "What did you fight with your brother about?"

He hesitates, and she opens her mouth to take it back, but he smiles ruefully at her. "It's all right, Emma. I…I realize we're not on the best of subjects, but I do enjoy talking with you." He takes a deep breath, settling further back into his seat and staring out at the road. "My reasons for leaving the military were not, in Liam's opinion, valid. He was injured, honorably discharged, and moved rather smoothly into civilian life. And that's just Liam. Nothing phases him. But…something happened that made it impossible for me to continue. And I suppose he was at least right in that I have been…wallowing, a bit."

Emma reaches across the seat, her hand on his leg before she realizes what she's done. She squeezes anyway, a light touch of reassurance. It's plain he doesn't want to provide further details about what exactly happened, and she won't ask. "David keeps trying to get me to take a job with him in Storybrooke. We fight about it almost every time I'm in town."

"You don't want to stay here?"

"I don't want…" She blows out a breath, leaning back into the warm seat. "David and Mary Margaret can be overwhelming. Don't get me wrong, I love them. But they want so badly for me to be happy and settled, and I'm…well, you know. I don't…I've tried, but I pick guys that steal my money, or turn out to be gay, or propose in spite of carrying on an affair for the majority of the time we were together."

"That certainly explains a great deal."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're afraid to talk, to reveal yourself, to trust me. But the thing is, Emma, I don't need you to share to read you. We're a great deal alike, you and I." He says it quietly, but with certainty. "Love has been all too rare in your life."

"Love?" She forces a laugh, shaking her head and staring resolutely out the window. "Love hasn't gotten me anywhere but heartbreak. Twice."

"Surely you must know the last thing I would ever do is break your heart." He's so serious when he says it, and Emma laughs nervously to break the tension, but he isn't having it. "I mean it, Emma. I realize we haven't known each other for that long, but I would very much like to continue to spend time with you. I'd like to accept David's offer to stay through Christmas, if you'll be here as well."

"You sure about that? None of my other relationships have ever lasted through a Christmas before."

He grins, and it takes her a moment to realize why he's so happy. "I do believe you just referred to us being in a relationship."

He's not wrong.

* * *

It had started as a joke – he hadn't intended to actually get David to replace the hideous decorations – but he isn't the slightest bit disappointed to have an excuse to spend time with Emma. Killian tries to be casual about draping his arm around her shoulders as they walk into Target, but her raised eyebrow is proof he is not nearly as clever as he thinks he is. He waits for her to shrug him off, but she just keeps walking. It might be his imagination, but he swears she presses just a tiny bit closer.

It's plain she hasn't spent much time here, her eyes scanning the aisles for the holiday decorations. He's surprised they're even here, together, that she took his side instead of her brother's.

"Where are all the lights?" Emma stops in front of the display, her brows crinkling at the mostly empty shelves. "It's the first week of December!"

"Aye, and they put the bloody things out before Thanksgiving." Killian laughs at her indignant look, releasing his grip to begin rummaging through the remaining boxes. "Lend a hand, Swan. Surely we can cobble together enough boxes of white lights to keep Dave's house from resembling a Christmas circus."

It doesn't take too long to find enough mismatched boxes of plain white lights. Emma refuses to get a cart or a basket, insisting she can carry her share, and he doesn't argue. He _does_ try to hide his smile as she curses under her breath, clearly struggling by the time they get to the cashier. With a sigh of relief, she dumps the whole lot of them onto the belt.

"What?" she demands when she catches him watching her, her hands flying to her hips.

"I quite fancy you, you know, even when you're being ridiculous." He tugs her into a sloppy hug, pressing a kiss to her hair and hoping he hasn't overstepped. She huffs indignantly, but she doesn't immediately pull away. He hopes she can't hear his heart thrumming beneath her cheek.

Flurries are falling when they exit the store, the sky dark and the air heavy with snow. Muttering a quick prayer under his breath it holds off long enough to finish this business with the lights, Killian opens Emma's door for her before going around to the other side of the truck.

"I can open my own door, you know," she says as he's backing out of the spot, but she sounds more curious than anything - it's plain not a lot of men have opened doors for her.

"I'm aware," he replies with a grin, turning his attention back to the road. She might as well _get_ used to it, if he has any say in the matter.

"This is…nice," she says after a minute, the silence surrounding them less awkward now. "You're not exactly what I expected."

"I have tried to tell you, love, I was not truly myself the night we met."

"I _do_ usually learn a man's name before sleeping with him." He can see her frown out of the corner of his eye, the hint of a blush creeping into her cheeks as she stares at her lap.

"I was quite upset with myself when I discovered you gone in the morning and I realized I hadn't gotten your name or number." He reaches across the seat, finding her fingers and lacing them together with a squeeze. "I can't tell you how happy I was to find you again."

"You were right, you know."

"Aye, I usually am. Which time are you referring to?"

Her lips twitch, fighting a smile as she attempts to scowl at him. "So modest." She hesitates, glancing down at their entwined fingers before going on. "Earlier, when you said I was afraid. You do scare me. How you make me feel scares me."

"I meant the rest of what I said. You're the only thing that has made me feel like living since I got back. Not just surviving, but actually _living_." He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to let it out slowly. "I don't wish to pressure you, but you never did answer my question about staying in town."

"I want you to stay," she says softly, the words so quiet at first he isn't certain he's heard correctly.

"Then I will stay." He brings their entwined fingers to his lips, brushing a kiss over the back of her hand. She nods, falling silent. He releases her hand long enough to find a station on the radio playing Christmas carols, and though she doesn't say anything, her fingers slide back into his without hesitation.

"About David," she says as they near the house, the snow flurries falling lazily around them. "I haven't changed my mind about telling him. I just...I rather…until we know what this is…I just, I'm bad enough at this, you know? David and Mary Margaret will be like parents with their teenager's first date, and it's a lot of pressure…"

"I understand." He doesn't, not entirely, but he swallows the splinter of hurt and releases her hand. If this is what she needs to be comfortable, then he'll give it to her. He's quickly learning there isn't much he wouldn't give Emma Swan.

The ladder is where they left it, but the tangle of lights has disappeared from the yard. Emma goes inside to retrieve David while Killian begins pulling the new lights out of their boxes, cursing the tiny twist ties and stubborn cardboard. It's gotten colder since they left, and for a moment, he _almost_ misses the furnace-like heat of the desert.

"Looks like you guys got back just in time," David says in greeting, following Emma out the front door and glancing up at the sky. "They're saying it's going to snow until Monday."

"Then we had best get on with it." Killian holds up the strand of white lights, grinning at his friend. "Where shall we start?"

* * *

It's harder than she thought it would be, being around Killian but avoiding his touch or anything that might give the appearance of a relationship. There's something ridiculously attractive about him up on that ladder, snowflakes clinging to his dark hair as he fusses over the lights, refusing to move on until he's certain they're perfectly straight along the eaves.

Even with his attention to detail, they make quick work of it. The snow is coming down in earnest by the time they've finished, the dark skies making the house all the more cozy with its soft glow.

Mary Margaret comes out to investigate their handiwork, and she smiles warmly at Killian when she sees the house. "Thank you for finally convincing him to get rid of those awful lights." She grins up at her husband, looping an arm around his waist, and Emma has to shove her hands in her pockets to keep from reaching for Killian.

"You said the house looked great last year!"

"Oh, honey, I pick my battles." Emma looks away as they share a kiss, happy and laughing together. Her eyes land on Killian's, and the fierce longing she sees reflected back at her puts an ache in her heart and shiver down her spine.

A gust of wind ushers them all inside, Mary Margaret insisting on making everyone a mug of hot chocolate. Somehow, Emma ends up next to Killian on the couch, and he offers a sly smile as he fishes a flask out of his jacket.

"Seriously, a flask?" she asks as he uncaps it and pours a generous measure of what she suspects is rum into his drink. "Who the hell carries around a flask?"

"Pirates," he says with a wink, the curve of his smile just scandalous enough to send a very different kind of heat racing through Emma's veins.

"What is it with you and pirates today?" David's eyes dart between the two of them, suspicion in his voice. "Is there some sort of joke I don't know about?"

"Give me the rum." Emma holds her hand out for the flask, ignoring David's question to dump the liquor into her own mug.

They don't stay long, the snow growing heavier and the alcohol making Emma sleepy. She'll have to walk home after all, between her nearly-bald tires and the amount of Killian's rum she's had, but with all the lights in the neighborhood, it should be a pretty walk. David offers her a ride, but she only shakes her head before giving him a quick hug. "Stay home with your wife while you can," she says softly, her eyes meeting Mary Margaret's across the room. "I'll be fine."

"I'll be sure to see her home safe, mate." Killian claps David on the shoulder before following Emma out, his hand lingering on the small of her back.

"You're going to drive?"

"Aye." He flashes her a grin, gesturing toward his truck. The snow is coming down in earnest, a fine layer already coating his hair and shoulders, clinging to his eyelashes. "I was not quite so determined as some to make my cocoa eighty-proof. What sort of gentleman allows a lady to walk home on a night like this?"

"What makes you think you can _allow_ me to do anything?" she shoots back, her temper flaring. She isn't even sure why it irritates her – he's plainly trying to be nice, but in spite of their cozy day, it still rubs her the wrong way.

He sighs, taking a step closer and pushing her hair gently over her shoulder. "It was simply a turn of phrase, love. Kindly allow me to escort you home. I'll sleep much better knowing you're safe."

"Oh, so it's all about you?" The words lack an edge, the best apology she can offer for her prickly behavior, but he smiles in reply.

"Allow me to walk you to your door, darling, and I promise you, it will be about you as much as you allow it to be."

Emma shivers at the promise, but she still hesitates, the thought of Killian in her apartment with its scattered boxes and dusty shelves momentarily horrifying. "I should warn you the only thing in my fridge is leftover Chinese food and a sad assortment of condiments," she says after a moment, swallowing the lingering unease.

"If you think to deter me with ketchup and mayonnaise, you have not been paying attention, love."

"Fine," she relents, a tiny smile forming on her lips. "You can drive me home."

"After you, m'lady."

"Don't push your luck."

* * *

Killian reminds himself to breathe, the urge to hold his breath rising again and again as he carefully maneuvers the snowy streets. Emma is quiet beside him, beautiful with the Christmas lights on her pale skin and the snow as a backdrop, but tense. It's impossible to tell in his fleeting glimpse of her at a stop sign if it's the weather that's set her jaw so tightly – or him.

Either way, he grasps the steering wheel a bit tighter.

It's a relief to pull up to her building, even if he half expects her to tell him not to bother coming up. But she waits for him to pull the keys out of the ignition before opening her door, her eyes soft with invitation. She offers a nervous smile as they walk up the stairs, pausing with her own keys in her hand.

"It's, um...well…I don't spend a lot of time here. So it's sort of a mess. I wasn't kidding about the fridge."

"Emma." He waits until she looks at him, his palm sliding along her jaw before he kisses her, a gentle, sweet kiss filled with the promise of so much more. "Let's go inside, love."

She shivers in his arms, and by the look in her eyes, it has nothing to do with the cold. She shoves the key in the lock, throwing open the door to reveal a dim loft. "Home sweet home," she mumbles, throwing her arm out to gesture vaguely. "Watch out for the boxes."

"Boxes?"

She flips on a light, and he suddenly sees what she meant, half-empty boxes littering most of the available floor space. "How long have you had this apartment?" he asks curiously, noting the lack of decoration. The only sign someone actually lives in this place is the coffee cup on the counter.

"Almost two years. David called the landlord on his way to get me from Florida and had it waiting when we got back."

"He's a good man."

She turns back toward him, her expression softening as she takes a step closer. "So are you," she says quietly before stretching to press her lips to his.

The quietness stays with her as they move up the stairs, losing clothes as they go. Her bedroom is just as disheveled as the rest of the apartment, piles of shoes and clothes littering the bed, and there's a faint blush gracing her cheeks when she turns to shove the mess off the bed. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize." He tugs her back into his arms, fingers sliding under her shirt to caress the soft, warm skin beneath. His lips brush just below her jaw, the catch in her breath he's aiming for sending a rush of heat through his veins. "You have nothing to apologize for."

He doesn't give her the chance to respond. For once, Emma isn't pushing, isn't determined to move things along at a frantic pace. He luxuriates in taking his time, mapping her body with his tongue, exploring and memorizing the feel of her, terrified each time that this will be the last – that she'll come to her senses and realize she's much too good for him.

When he finally collapses beside her, his breath still coming in short pants, he's surprised she curls into his side without hesitation, one hand on his chest, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. He doesn't say anything, only wraps his arm around her, holding her snug against him, his thumb rubbing against the curve of her waist. The question lurks on the tip of his tongue – he's learned enough about Emma to realize allowing him into her space is a lot for her, and he doesn't wish to overstay his welcome.

But he also doesn't want to leave.

Emma's hand snakes across his chest, her fingertip grazing the tattoo on his arm. He tenses without meaning to, and she snatches her hand back as though he's burned her. "I'm sorry," she mumbles, beginning to pull away. "I shouldn't have…"

"It's all right, love." He presses gently on her back, coaxing her back to his side. "I should be the one to apologize. I owe you an explanation."

"You really don't."

"Aye, I do. You should know the quality of man I am before this goes any further." He forces himself to breathe deeply, closing his eyes against the wash of memories. "I lost my team when I was overseas. I made an error in my judgement, and it cost those men their lives. They were like brothers to me." His throat tightens, and he has to stop, force the bitter taste of guilt back down into the pit it lives in and collect himself. "The tattoo, properly, would be an eagle holding the trident. This version is a reminder of what happens when I make reckless choices."

Her eyes glitter in the darkness, and when she reaches for his arm again, he doesn't stop her. He expects her to examine it further, the ghastly slashes so painstakingly rendered in ink, but she stretches over him, gently pressing her lips to the heart of the tattoo.

He swallows so hard he nearly chokes.

"I won't pretend to know what you went through over there," she says, her eyes locking onto his. "But I find it really hard to believe you would have done anything other than what you thought best at the time."

It's his turn to look away, the conversation stirring up memories best left buried. The loss, his arguments with Liam – _Leading isn't always easy, little brother._ – the wounds are as fresh now as they were then.

"I should go," he mumbles, twisting to kiss her forehead before starting to move away.

"You should stay." Her touch is gentle, but it's a demand if he's ever heard one, her fingers splayed across his chest exerting enough pressure to prove her point. "I _want_ you to stay."

He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing hard. Oh, how he's wanted to hear those words, how he's wished every time he's cajoled her into staying that he didn't have to. But he isn't company fit for her with memories of the past stirring up trouble in his heart. "Emma…" he begins, forcing his eyes back open to find her hovering above him.

"Shut up, Killian." She softens the words with a kiss, her hand trailing up his body until her fingers thread through his still-damp hair. "It's freezing tonight, and I'm much too tired to go find another blanket in that mess downstairs."

"Ah, so that's why you want me. A mere heat source." He lifts an eyebrow at her smile, playing along – he understands her well enough by now to recognize her need to chase a heartfelt statement with a joke. He's grateful for it tonight, his own emotions weighing on him.

He admitted his deepest shame, and instead of sending him away, she asks him to stay – she uses her touch to keep him in bed as he's done so many times before. It's almost too much.

She laughs quietly, brushing her lips over his once more before turning on her side. She shifts for a moment before tugging his arm around her waist and pressing her shoulders back, warm skin snug against warm skin. "That's right. Get to work."

He can't help a laugh of his own, gathering the quilt up and spreading it over them before curling around her. Pressing his nose into her hair, he breathes deeply, savoring the scent of her shampoo and the lingering smell of winter, snow and woodsmoke, all mixed up with _her_.

"Killian?"

"Hmmm?"

"I'm glad you're here."

"Me as well, darling, me as well."

* * *

A week goes by, and they don't have a conversation about it, but they spend their nights together, and there's no longer a question of staying. They linger longer and longer together in the mornings, making breakfast in Emma's apartment after she begrudgingly went to the store or sipping coffee Killian fetched from the diner below.

They don't talk about Christmas, but they do go back to Target together and search through the picked-over lights until they find enough strands to fit around Emma's windows and stairs. They mean to hang them when they get back to the apartment, but one thing leads to another, and they find themselves making great use of the couch before they get around to the lights.

Emma steals Killian's button-up, a flannel shirt she teased him mercilessly about when he first arrived to pick her up for their outing. She doesn't miss the smoldering look it earns her, his eyes dragging down her legs, but she forces herself to break eye contact before she keeps walking right up the stairs to her bed.

He doesn't bother with a shirt, only tugging his jeans back into place before retrieving the shopping bag from its discarded location by the door. She watches shamelessly, licking her bottom lip in appreciation when he turns back to her.

"Keep looking at me like that, love, and these lights will have to wait until next Christmas." His voice is low, almost a growl, and it makes her shiver in spite of the warm apartment.

She firmly ignores the mention of next Christmas and her body's reaction to it, a flip of her stomach and a pervading warmth that contradict each other.

He stalks across the apartment to join her in front of the first window, tugging her into a breath-stealing kiss before handing her a box of lights. "These were for the stairs, yeah?"

"Yeah."

She doesn't put on Christmas carols. There isn't a tree or a roaring fire. But there is something remarkably cozy about looking up from her work to find Killian at the window, half-tangled in the lights humming Silent Night to himself.

The stairs are easier than the windows, and Emma finishes easily before he does. "All done," she calls across the apartment, straightening from plugging in the strand.

"Beautiful." Killian isn't looking at the lights when she faces him, his slightly awed expression focused entirely on her. He abandons the lights when she steps into his arms, snow once again falling outside the window as his hands dance under the shirt to press her close. He kisses her softly, a sweet kiss filled with promises far beyond the bedroom.

She breaks apart from him with a sigh, gesturing to the remaining window. "C'mon, let's finish this one before we're too distracted."

"It's not my fault you are the loveliest distraction I've ever laid eyes on."

Emma rolls her eyes, but laughs as she starts to unravel the last strands of lights. The apartment is lit only by their pale glow, the overcast skies outside lending little light. She begins to position them around the window, Killian at her back pressing thumbtacks into the wall to secure the strand.

When they're finished, he draws her closer, her back flush with his chest and his arms around her waist. He leans forward, his chin on her shoulder and the warmth of his skin bleeding through her shirt. "This is the most festive my apartment has ever looked," she admits, leaning back into him as he straightens.

"Elsa, Liam's wife, has always loved Christmas. She decorates the entire apartment the day after Thanksgiving, all silver and white and gold. It's quite breathtaking." He pauses, his hold on her tightening. "Perhaps...well, perhaps if Liam and I manage to mend things, and you're back in Boston after the holiday…"

Emma's heartbeat speeds up, a rush of nerves and cautious excitement filling her veins. How badly she wants a future with Killian already, Christmas, _more_ , it's a bit terrifying. It's only been a few weeks, but it's growing harder to imagine her life without him.

"That...sounds nice," she finally says, admitting the truth both to herself and to Killian. It _does_ sound nice, spending this holiday with him here in Storybrooke, maybe another with his family. It's her deepest held secret, one that she's never admitted to and perhaps only David has guessed at – Emma would give anything to have someone to share her holidays with.

There just hasn't been anyone who ever stuck around long enough to try.

"I...I always wanted white lights. When I was growing up...I was a foster kid. I don't think I've told you that. I didn't meet David until high school, and I didn't have many friends before that. The families I was with...well, the ones that did have Christmas, it was always pretty bare bones. But I would walk around at night, way past whatever crappy neighborhood I was in until I found the nice part of town. And those houses, they were always so beautiful, trimmed in white lights." She pauses, blinking back tears and watching the snow drift down. Her arms fold over his, hugging him closer and tilting her head back to rest in the crook of his neck. "I guess I just built it up to this thing in my head, and when you brought it up today…"

Killian is silent behind her, listening, but when she stops, he nudges her around until they're facing each other. His hands slips into her hair, thumbs gently caressing along her cheekbones as their eyes meet. "You're my Christmas miracle, Emma. Let me be yours."

She barely has time to nod, her throat tight, but then his lips touch hers and whatever lingering sadness her childhood memories have brought on is banished.

* * *

They receive separate invitations to David's for Sunday night dinner, and Killian is tempted to simply tell Emma he'll pick her up, but he doesn't want to spoil their newfound closeness. Christmas is a week away, and while they still haven't talked about what happens after the holiday, each day has afforded him another glimpse into the wonder that is Emma Swan.

The fact that they're still keeping their relationship to themselves is frankly a bit of a puzzle to him. Emma makes him happy. He's all but certain he makes her happy. But when they're together in front of anyone else, she keeps her distance, all stolen glances and fleeting touches.

Killian isn't a shout-it-from-the-rooftops sort of guy, but it would be nice to hold his girlfriend's hand in public or put his arm around her in David's living room.

At least, he thinks Emma is his girlfriend. They haven't talk about that either. He supposes her offhanded comment about being in a relationship should be assurance enough, but it still nags at him.

They end up arriving at David's at the same time anyway, and when Killian gets out of his truck, Emma's face flickers with something that could be disappointment before she smiles at him. "Ready for family dinner?" she jokes, the glow of the lights they hung reflecting off her smooth skin.

"I think it's perfectly lovely they still have a proper Sunday dinner."

"Of course you do." Emma glances over her shoulder back toward the house before stepping closer and pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. "Do you want to come over tonight? I've been making progress on the boxes and you can almost see the floor in my bedroom."

He smiles, ignoring the chill when she steps away and turns toward the house. He chooses instead to focus on her words, the invitation, and the fact that she's finally unpacking those bloody boxes. The more time they spend there together, the more it feels like a home, not just a glorified storage unit, as he's heard her refer to it.

"Of course, love."

Mary Margaret opens the door for them as they walk up the stairs, one hand resting on her swollen stomach and a smile on her lips. "Nice to see you again, Killian," she says in greeting, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before turning to Emma and disappearing through the archway in the direction of the kitchen.

He finds David in the living room, a football game on mute and case files strewn across the coffee table. "Working on a Sunday night, mate?" he asks, taking a seat in the only armchair not covered in paperwork.

David looks up at the sound of Killian's voice, a wry smile on his lips as he gestures at the mess. "Property records. The Mayor and the town council are having a disagreement over the boundaries of one of the parks. She wants to lease the land, and they insist it's protected."

"Shouldn't her office be looking into it, then?"

"I'm the sheriff of a small town, Killian. It's a legal matter. Sort of falls to me." David sighs, beginning to shuffle the mess together into a haphazard stack. "I talked to Liam today."

"Oh?" Killian does his best to keep his face still and his voice indifferent.

"He seemed surprised to hear you were in Storybrooke."

"Didn't have the chance to tell him."

"You've been here for almost three weeks." David frowns, grabbing the last folder and adding it to the stack before turning his stare on Killian. The intensity in those eyes gives Killian the sudden sense of being across an interrogation table. "Speaking of, why are you still paying to stay at Granny's? You know you're welcome here."

"Thanks, mate. I know, but with it being the off-season, the fee is quite reasonable. I wouldn't want to be in your way." Killian keeps his voice light, holding his friend's stare with effort.

It's not as though Killian is about to explain he can't stay here because he spends his nights with Emma, and Emma doesn't want anyone to know.

"You wouldn't be in the way at all. Besides, with Liam and Elsa coming up, I'm sure Mary Margaret would love having some help getting the house ready."

Killian stares at David, dumbfounded. "Liam is coming _here_?"

"I invited him up the same time we asked you to stay." David's eyes narrow, a subtle shift in his voice making the question sharper. "Is that an issue?"

Killian takes a deep breath, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes and debating his next move. "Look, mate," he finally begins, wishing for Emma's calming presence and gentle touch. "Liam and I've had a bit of a falling out. It's been several months since we spoke."

"He never said anything." David folds his arms across his chest, leaning back into the couch cushions with a frown. "Well, it's the holidays. You should be with your family. I'm sure whatever has happened, you'll get past it. Emma never manages to stay angry at me forever."

"Aye, but Emma is not Liam. She's warm and kind, and she doesn't feel the need to tell others how to live their lives." The words are out before he realizes what he's done, and Killian shifts uncomfortably in his seat, heat rising to the tips of his ears.

"You know, I love Emma, but not many people see that side of her enough to call her either warm or kind." A small smile plays at the edge of David's lips. "But then again, most people don't spend every night with her."

"I...Emma and I...she's…" Killian struggles to find the right thing to say, flustered and tongue-tied. David doesn't seem particularly upset – he's giving the impression of trying very hard not to laugh.

"You guys talking about me?" Emma appears in the doorway, a glass of wine in her hand. She's beautifully casual tonight, snug jeans and a cascade of unruly curls falling down her back.

"Yes, I was just saying to Killian how nice it is that you two have been spending so much time together." Her eyes dart to Killian's, and he shakes his head as subtly as possible. He hasn't told David a thing, and he has no idea what the man is referring to. He's tempted to chalk it up to the nights he's driven Emma home, but David was pretty specific – _every_ night.

When neither of them say anything, David stops trying to hide his laughter. "What's so funny?" Emma demands, brandishing her wine glass like a weapon.

"The two of you." David shakes his head at Emma, gesturing between her and Killian. "Did you really think you could hide your relationship in a town this small? Mary Margaret has just been dying for one of you to admit to it. It's the worst kept secret in Storybrooke."

Killian holds his breath, looking to Emma for how they handle this. Were it up to him, he would simply shrug and pull her down onto his lap, but David is the most important person in her life. It's not up to him.

He's incredibly relieved when Emma steps close enough to weave her fingers with his. "It's just, we... _I_ needed some time with it." She smiles down at Killian, perching on the edge of the armchair and leaning against him. He releases her fingers, his arm going around her waist to steady her automatically. She's still looking at Killian when she adds, "We should have told you earlier."

"Oh, thank god," Mary Margaret says from the doorway. She practically beams at the two of them before moving to sit beside her husband. "It was getting really hard to pretend we didn't know."

Emma sputters, but Killian just smiles, taking her wine glass and pulling her off the armrest and into his lap before handing the glass back. He waits for her to roll her eyes and huff, but she surprises him by leaning back into his shoulder. She takes a long sip from her wine before glancing up at him, a tentative smile on her lips. "Sorry," she says quietly. By the look in her eyes, he knows the apology is for him as much as for the couple on the couch.

"Well, now that we've settled that, let's talk about Christmas. Liam is driving up Wednesday with Elsa, and I told them they could stay here. Killian, really, we have that other bedroom, so you can…"

"He can stay with me," Emma interrupts, her free hand squeezing his thigh in silent reassurance. David might not know the entire story behind his argument with his brother, but Emma does. His heart beats a little faster at the simple gesture – and the realization that Emma has just invited him to stay in her home.

Killian loses track of the conversation, plans being made for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, meals to be shared and coordinated. All he can think about is going back to Granny's tonight, packing his things into his bag, and returning his key.

When he wakes up with Emma tomorrow, there will be no reason for him to leave.

* * *

Emma tries not to hold her breath while she waits for Killian, pacing the apartment. When she told him earlier she was making progress with the boxes, it wasn't entirely true – she's finished with them.

After he left this morning, Emma lingered in bed, the scent of him on the sheets and a feeling she couldn't quite put her finger on blooming in her heart. She started cleaning the bedroom first, struggling to make sense of her own emotions, and before she knew it, the boxes were emptied and the apartment felt _empty_.

She was halfway to Target before she realized she'd made the decision to stay in Storybrooke.

Having never remained long enough in one place to really have it feel like home, she only bought a few things, but the vase of fresh flowers on the kitchen island and the candle in the middle of the new coffee table somehow shift the loft from a barren space to something cozy and warm. Along with the Christmas lights and a handful of pillows that were too soft to pass up, she could almost call the apartment inviting.

And now Killian is at Granny's, gathering his things and coming to stay here. With her. For Christmas.

Her heart is hammering when she opens the door at his knock, a nervous smile on her face as she takes his hand and tugs him inside. "So, I changed a few…"

He's dropped his bag and pulled her into a kiss before she can finish her sentence, his touch drenched in emotion as his arms wrap tightly around her. He's breathing heavily when they break apart, but he doesn't let her go far, arms still snug around her waist and his forehead pressed to hers. "I'm falling in love with you, Emma. Bloody hell, I know it's probably the wrong thing to say right now, but…"

"Me too," she whispers, her thumb caressing the line of his jaw. It's the feeling she's been nudging around inside herself all day, a tightness in her chest and a warmth in her bones that any thought of Killian provokes.

He's gentle when he takes her to bed, every whispered word and feathery touch a confession and a promise. It's late when they finally fall asleep, wrapped up in each other and Emma's new sheets.

She wakes up on her stomach, Killian tracing patterns over her bare back. "Good morning, love," he murmurs, stretching to press a kiss against her lips before resuming his idle caresses. He's on his side next to her, the sheet pooled around their hips. Emma sighs, enjoying his attentions.

"That feels nice." Her words are muffled by the pillow, still half-asleep. "Have you been awake long?"

"A bit." He brushes her hair off her shoulders, tracing a line from the top of her spine all the way down to the sheets and back up again. Emma shivers, goosebumps breaking out across her skin.

"Your brother loves you," she says softly, struggling to focus with Killian's wandering hand on her back. "I know I've never met him, but the way you talk about him…."

His hand stills for a moment before resuming its path, the pads of his fingers exerting gentle pressure along the tense muscles of her neck. He's silent for a long time, and Emma thinks perhaps she's stepped over a line, but then he whispers, "I don't want to go back to Boston. I want to stay in Storybrooke, Emma. Permanently stay here, with you." He doesn't stop touching her, but she can see the nervousness in his expression. "Too much?"

"No." She rolls onto her side, threading her fingers into his hair and pulling him down for a kiss. There's so much more lurking in her thoughts – it's only been a few weeks, but she's certain of him like she hasn't been certain before; she wanted to ask him to stay but was afraid saying it would only drive him away – but her throat is too tight to get the words out, so she keeps kissing him.

They linger in bed well into the morning, a luxury she hasn't afforded herself as long as she can remember. She dozes off again after they make love, Killian's heartbeat lulling her to sleep.

She finds David the next morning at the station and tells him she plans to stay, finally accepting the job offer. "Don't say I never got you anything for Christmas," she jokes, squeezing his shoulder before taking the badge he holds out to her.

"I believe I'm the one who just gave _you_ a job."

"Yeah, but you get me here in town."

"Oh, I'm going to see you? You're not just going to stay locked up in your apartment with Killian forever?"

Emma blushes, but laughs anyway. "Maybe just for the first week or two."

"Is he staying too?"

"Yeah."

"Good." David stands, wrapping her in a quick hug before shooing her toward the door. "Your first official assignment as my deputy is to go help Mary Margaret before she has a nervous breakdown getting ready for Christmas."

She spends the next few days helping prepare the house for guests during the day and soothing Killian by night. His anxiousness over seeing his brother again is palpable, but Emma does her best to offer comfort and distraction.

And on Christmas Eve, she kisses Killian outside David's door before they go in. "I'm right here," she says quietly, threading her fingers through his as they go inside to a houseful of family.

She doesn't have time to let go of Killian's hand before his brother is there, pulling him into a back slapping hug with the same grin she's seen so often. "Merry Christmas, little brother!"

Killian looks stunned, but recovers quickly, wrapping his arm around Emma's waist and tucking her against his side as his brother backs off. " _Younger_ brother," he grumbles, but she can see the happiness shining in his eyes. "Liam, this is Emma." He pauses, the hand on her waist squeezing just a little tighter. "My girlfriend."

Liam's expression softens as his eyes fall on her. "Merry Christmas, Emma. Thank you for looking after him."

"We look after each other," she says softly, planting a kiss on Killian's cheek. Liam nods, reaching behind him for his own wife. Introductions are made, dinner is served, and Emma watches with deep satisfaction as the brothers start to knit their relationship back together.

Killian is a bundle of nerves at first, gripping her hand a little too tightly and never straying from her side despite Liam's attempts to draw him into conversation. She helps where she can, but mostly, she squeezes his hand back.

He finally relaxes when David brings out the eggnog. She sees the moment he slips back into his own family tradition, an eyebrow lifted in challenge over his glass at his brother. By the end of the night, David, Liam and Killian are all loudly talking over each other, trading stories and memories between them like the rift was never there. She trades a look of her own with Elsa, a shared smile of relief that the brothers have put their argument behind them.

Killian can still stand by the end of night, but just barely. Emma fishes his keys out of his pocket with a shake of her head, but he doesn't get in the truck right away. His cheeks are red in the glow of the lights from the house, his breath misting in the frigid air as he cups her face and bestows a gentle kiss. He tastes like rum and eggnog – and relief.

"Thank you," he says quietly, the words low and heavy with emotion. His eyes are hazy with liquor, but the words are clear. It's freezing and her bed is calling her name, but she doesn't resist when Killian gathers her close on the sidewalk and simply holds her until she shivers.

He offers an apologetic smile, getting in and pressing the buttons for the seat heaters the moment she turns the key. They're halfway back to the apartment when Killian stirs from his spot leaned against the window, sleepy eyes struggling to focus on her. "He apologized."

"Liam?"

"Aye."

Emma waits for more, but Killian falls silent again. He doesn't say anything else about his brother as they go up to her apartment, but when they crawl into bed, his arms are as tight around her as they've ever been.

Christmas morning dawns bright and sunny, and Emma blinks her eyes open to Killian sleeping beside her, his arm snug around her waist. "Merry Christmas, Killian," she whispers, trailing her fingers over his brows and jaw, her thumb grazing his bottom lip. "Thank you for being my Christmas miracle."

He doesn't wake, but his arm tightens around her. Emma snuggles closer, breathing him in and thinking of all the holidays to come.

* * *

Well, there it is, the short little Christmas "one shot" that came in at over 22,000 words. Oops.

I hope you all had a lovely holiday! Many thanks to onceuponsomechaos for the beta job and sybelle for convincing me not to delete the damn thing. 3


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